


Bird Wreck

by KRyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 04, idioms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 07:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5904526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRyn/pseuds/KRyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Plans for a late dinner had been delayed not by a Number, but by a possible lead in one of Detective Riley's cases. A lead that hadn't panned out. They had just returned to a discussion of food choices--John pushing for seafood, Harold arguing for pasta--when Reese had interrupted their conversation with a brusque, <em>'Hold that thought, Finch.'</em> </p><p>Moments later, the line had gone dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Having time to browse the web doing odd bits of research is obviously a dangerous thing for me as it prompts the writing Muse into unexpected directions. An innocent stop on a web page full of idioms and suddenly there's a fic full of them. 
> 
> I'm sure they'll be obvious as they come up, but as most tend to be 'American' expressions, there might be some confusion for other native language readers. Feel free to check the Acknowledgements once the last chapter is posted for explanations of those used in the story.
> 
> When I started collecting idioms for this piece, I had actually intended the fic to be a bit silly, but the Muse had other ideas and took it in a more angst-driven direction. Hopefully there's at least one twist-of-the lip bit of humor to be found somewhere along the line. 
> 
> I owe the title to a recent Rinch chat on the Person of Interest Discussion Forum. Hope that wrist heals quickly, TD. 
> 
> My thanks to talkingtothesky for your beta work--you always make me look good. :)

******************************************

Leading double lives left little time for fulfilling personal needs and desires.

Harold and John had learned to savor the moments they were granted. 

Sometimes it was just a glimpse of one another across a busy street--Professor Whistler hurrying to catch the train to the college, Detective Riley on his way to a fresh homicide; reassurance and relief and love exchanged in a searching look and a casual nod. 

Sometimes it was the brush of fingertips as a folder of information was exchanged; a kiss snatched before Reese hurried from their subway headquarters; the comfort of two bodies aligned for an hour's rest. 

Rarely, an uninterrupted night of loving. 

But always a beloved voice on the other end of the phone line.

Their plans for a late dinner together that evening had been delayed not by a Number, but by a possible lead in one of Detective Riley's cases. A lead that hadn't panned out. They had just returned to a discussion of food choices--John pushing for seafood, Harold arguing for pasta--when Reese had interrupted their conversation with a brusque, _'Hold that thought, Finch.'_

Moments later, the line had gone dead.

Silence had reigned from John's end for 39 minutes and 14 seconds, during which Harold had made numerous, jaw-clenchingly unsuccessful attempts to pinpoint his partner's location. He had come up empty trying to trace the GPS from John's phone. Something was interfering with the signal. Environmental obstacles could easily be the cause, the density of buildings in the City often bouncing or degrading wireless-to-satellite transmissions, but that rationalization hadn't eased Harold's growing concern, or lessened his frustration.

He didn't have the codes to activate the transponder in the police-issued vehicle John was driving. Hacking into the NYPD command center was no longer something he could do without great risk, although he'd kept the option open.

He had tried reaching out to Detective Fusco, hoping Lionel might know where the lead John had been pursuing had taken him, but two calls and three text messages--carefully worded since both the detective's work line and cell were subject to surveillance--had gone unanswered. 

Irritated as he was with Fusco's lack of response, he blamed himself as well--he hadn't been monitoring Reese as closely as he was wont to do when they were working a Number, so he had only a general idea of where John had been before their call ended. 

_"I know why the c-chicken crossed the road, Finch."_

Harold's head snapped up, fingers stilling on the keyboard at the sound of his partner's voice, relief battling annoyance. 

Lately, his partner's favorite pasttime had been teasing him with bird-inspired idioms, and manifestly bad jokes and puns. Begun as a means of dealing with the boredom of a long stakeout on a Number, the practice had bled into their daily lives. The corny references even popped up in bed.

While he'd found John's snarkily whispered, _'My little chickadee,'_ oddly endearing when breathed in his ear after a very satisfying round of sex, he found the ex-op's current attempt at humor ill-timed. 

"And why was that, Mr. Reese," he answered stiffly. 

_"...t' get away from the guys...shooting at him."_

Harold flushed ice cold, fingertips tingling with the shock of it. 

_"I c-cocked up, Harold. Played c-chicken and lost."_

The tiled walls of their subway headquarters added a frightening touch of reverb to the stuttered words emanating from the speaker. Harold swallowed the lump of fear in his throat; strove for calm. 

"Are you injured?"

_"...got my...wings c-clipped."_

That could mean anything from a bullet wound to a broken limb. Or both. 

Harold tried to trace John's location once more, stiff fingers stabbing at the keyboard. Still nothing. Almost worse, whatever was interfering with GPS reception, was also affecting the audio signal, making it fade in and out. He did what he could to augment it from his end, but the improvement was minimal.

"Tell me where you are and I'll marshal assistance."

_"...the...caged bird...s-sings of freedom."_

The literary reference instead of straightforward directions worried him less than the stilted, hesitant delivery, which could imply a serious concussion, or massive blood loss; either contributing to mental confusion. Harold focused on parsing the meaning, instead of dithering about the method. 

Had Reese been taken prisoner by whoever had been shooting at him? No, if that was the case, they would have certainly removed any means of communication. It was more likely that John had gone to ground inside a structure with few, or no options for escape: a metal or concrete building that was blocking the RF signal. 

"Are you safe for the moment?" Harold dove into the phone logs, searching the records for the cell towers that had registered his partner's last few calls. If he could get three points of reference, he could generate a more specific search area. Even two points would give him an idea as to the direction Reese had been heading. 

_"...cold..."_

_That_ at least needed no interpretation.

_"...'s...lovely weather...for d-ducks..."_

A flurry of keystrokes brought up the local weather map on another monitor. The skies had been clear when Harold had headed below four hours earlier, and current radar imaging indicated moderate cloud cover, but no trace of precipitation. So why was Reese referencing rain or wet conditions? Was he near a body of water? 

"I need something more specific, Mr. Reese," Harold pressed. "Surely all those navigation skills you learned in Special Forces are still in that stubborn, albeit battered head of yours."

_"-----------"_

The lack of response made Harold's heart skip a beat. "John!"

Sudden warmth on his thigh and a soft whine announced Bear's presence, the Malinois drawn from his bed next to the subway car by the sound of John's voice, or by the anxiety Harold was broadcasting. He spared the dog a quick caress, but his focus remained on his worryingly silent partner.

 _"...six klicks..."_ Reese finally replied. _"...as the...p-pigeon f-flies."_

A klick was military slang for kilometer. Manhattan Island was 59 km/squared in area, 21.6 km long, 3.7 km at its widest point. 6 km equaled 3.72823 miles. The standard city block in Manhattan was 264 feet by 900 feet. 5,280 feet in a mile. 3.72823 miles yielded 22 blocks in one direction, 74 in the other. 

Without a known reference point, it was all worthless information. 

But John wouldn't have given him the clue if he hadn't believed Harold could interpret and follow it.

_As the pigeon flies._

Reese had gotten the idiom wrong. It should have been 'as the **crow** flies'. Pigeons and crows were very different birds, although both were territorial by nature; ranging for several miles, but always returning to roost at the same home base.

Harold muttered a curse at his own obtuseness and pulled up a map of the Island. Using the location of their subway headquarters as the center point, he overlaid a circle with a 4-mile radius. Only one segment of the circle's arc intersected a body of water, at the end of 14th Street.

"John, are you near the docks?"

_"...give my...f-fine f-feathered...friend a prize..."_

Confirmation he was on the right track, but the docks stretched for miles, and searching the entire area would take more time than he feared his partner had. Still, he had enough information to begin mobilizing help. 

Harold snagged a clean burner phone from the desk drawer and tapped in Fusco's cell number. While he waited for the call to connect, he opened a partition on his system and used a spoofed IP address to hack into the City property records.

"You _are_ a prize, Mr. Reese," Harold intoned fiercely, putting all the love he held for the man into that statement. "One I'm intent on keeping, despite the gray hairs you cause me. Help me get you safely home, and I'll even agree to that seafood you wanted for dinner."

_"S-something...smells f-fishy..."_

"I hope that's not intended to be a comment on my character," Harold muttered, distantly proud of the fact that his voice was calm, despite wanting to throw the phone across the room when his call to the detective went to voice mail again. On the chance that John's 'fishy' reference was literal instead of figurative, he initiated a search for 'fish processing and/or fish wholesale' locations on or near the docks when the property records data base opened. 

_"F-finch?"_

"I'm here, John." 

_"...ghetto b-bird's circlin'..."_

Harold had _no_ idea what that could mean. "That's not a species I'm familiar with, Mr. Reese." He dialed Fusco again. "Can you describe it?" 

_"...b-black.."_

Harold shuddered. Black birds and black feathers were too often considered harbingers of death. 

_"...see the...light..."_

Harold wasn't a believer in those tales that suggested the dying saw a light beckoning them to the here-after, but the way his partner spoke those words... 

"John--" 

There was a sharp click, and Fusco's tired voice suddenly thundered in Harold's ear. _"Yeah, Professor?"_

"Hold on, John," Harold urged his partner. A tap muted his end of their call. "Detective! I've been trying to reach you." 

_"Been up to my ears in blood at a fresh homicide. What's got your tail feathers in a knot?"_

Harold bit back the impulse to curse. One associate making avian references was more than he could handle at a time. "Your partner's in need of immediate assistance." 

_"Where?"_

"I'm working on determining a specific location, but somewhere on the waterfront near 14th. He was checking out a lead on one of his cases and ran into trouble. How fast can you get there?" 

Fusco's response was drowned out by the roar of a powerful engine and a 'thwapping' sound that set Harold's already frazzled nerves on end. 

"What _is_ that?' 

_"Med-flight chopper airlifting one of the perps to New York General."_

Harold's breath caught. Could a helicopter be John's black bird and the light he'd seen a searchlight? "Does the term 'ghetto bird' mean anything to you?" 

_"Yeah, it's slang for police chopper. Why?"_

"One's in the area where John's taken cover. If we could determine precisely where their flight plan took them--" 

_"That'll help nail down his location. Communications should have that info, and they can activate the GPS on his car if he was driving one of the unmarked units. I'll get on it and call you en-route."_

Harold unmuted his connection with Reese. "Detective Fusco's on the way, John." 

Once again, his partner was slow to respond. _"...birds...of a...f-feather..."_

"Flock together," Harold finished the thought. "That's right. We'll be with you soon." 

He checked the property search, but it was still sorting. No matter; he could access it from his laptop. A few keystrokes sent a '911' text to Shaw's phone, giving her the coordinates for the end of 14th street and a plea to hurry. A few more taps routed John's call from his system to his own mesh network cell. He shoved an earpiece into place and activated the unit. 

For the first time, John's response was forcefully lucid. _"No. Don't...risk it..."_

Harold flashed on the memory of another night; another breathy fatalistic conversation. They'd managed to cheat death then. Hopefully they could do it again. He pushed to his feet, snatched up his laptop bag and hurriedly limped to the coat rack. He shrugged into his coat and slung his bag over his shoulder. 

He turned to find Bear planted in his path, leash dangling from his mouth. Recognizing that Bear's keen nose might be as valuable as his sharp teeth, Harold took the lead and slid it into his pocket. He was confident the Malinois would obey the command to stay at his side, at least until he sent him in search. 

_"Harold..."_

"Save your breath, Mr. Reese," he ordered firmly, detouring to the lockers near the gate to grab the duffle bag containing medical supplies that Shaw had prepared for emergencies, and a shirt of John's that carried his scent. "I'll have Bear with me. And Detective Fusco on my heels. Hopefully Miss Shaw as well." 

He'd made it to the second landing of the staircase, Bear leading the way, before John's voice sounded in his ear again. 

_"My boss...has bats...in the b-belfry. His ideas...'r crazy..."_

At this point Harold would have preferred a straightforward no-nonsense conversation, but as long as John was talking, he was still alive. And, possibly a bit more lucid. If banter was required to maintain or improve that status quo, Harold would happily oblige. 

"Bats are mammals, Mr. Reese." 

A gasp/groan that Harold thought was intended to be a laugh. _"Madder...than a wet...hen, then."_

Harold shoved open the door at the top of the stairs and quickly made his way through the debris littering the first floor of the abandoned building that housed this entry to the subway. 

"If you're going to insist on peppering this conversation with ornithological idioms, Mr. Reese, please do use them properly." He paused to grab a fist-sized chunk of brick before following Bear out onto the street. "'Madder than a wet hen' speaks to a state of irritation or anger, not mental instability."

Despite the rundown nature of the neighborhood, there were typically a few older model cars parked along the street, and Harold was grateful to find one half a block away that looked like it had some power left under the hood. With Bear trotting next to him, he hurried toward it. 

_"S-s-smart ass old...owl. S-should...know better than to...fly into t-trouble."_

Harold smashed the brick into the driver's side window. Seconds later, Bear was in the backseat and Harold was behind the wheel, putting some of his less technical skills to use. 

"I may not be a spring chicken, Mr. Reese," he said, hot-wiring the ignition, "but there's no reason to insult me." 

The engine made a horrifyingly loud grinding sound, but the car started. Harold shoved the transmission into 'drive' and peeled away from the curb. 

_"...sitting...d-duck..."_

The frustration in his partner's voice was clear. "Not for long," Harold promised. "Besides, a new net won't catch an old bird." 

_"...it's...mileage...n-not...years..."_

That almost made Harold smile. 

Almost. 

He steered with one hand, tugging his laptop out of his bag with the other. Traffic forced him to a stop at the next main intersection. While other late-night drivers were tapping impatient fingers against steering wheels, Harold's skimmed over the laptop's keyboard, calling up the search he'd initiated down in the subway. 

When the light turned green, he slid the laptop to the passenger's seat. "There are at least a dozen fish processing businesses in that area of the docks, John," he reported, shifting his gaze between the road and the monitor screen. "Can you give me _anything_ to narrow down your location?" 

His partner's response was garbled, 'rugs' the only word Harold could identify. 

"Say again?" Harold pressed. 

_"...out...f-foxed..."_

Harold's stomach clenched. He'd used that phrase himself when he'd been dosed with Ecstasy. Had Reese stumbled on a drug deal? He was about to prod at his partner again when John's voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper. 

_"Not a peep..."_

There could be only one reason for that choice of phrase. John's adversaries were close. Harold fumbled his phone out of his pocket, muting his end of the call. 

But he continued to listen; straining for the sound that would end his world as he tore through the streets. 

Three full minutes passed. Without a word. Without a gunshot. 

His phone vibrated, startling him. He felt a surge of hope when he saw the caller ID: Shaw. The cell rattled again with a second incoming call from Fusco. 

And then there was an explosion in his ear. 

He barely felt the steering wheel under his hands, nearly sideswiping a parked car as he guided the vehicle to the curb. 

His hands shook as he unmuted John's line. He said his partner's name, but there was barely air in his lungs to expel it. 

His phone vibrated again and again with his other associates' attempts to reach him. 

He couldn't get his mind or fingers to work to answer their insistent calls. There was only one voice he wanted to hear, and that one was silent. 

Bear whined in the back seat, canine instincts sensing something wrong. 

Harold couldn't even bring himself to turn and comfort the dog. 

He'd faced loss before and managed to go on. But losing John...

The phone buzzing in his hand was like an annoying insect, demanding attention. He had to answer it. The others deserved to know that they would likely be retrieving a body at the end of this trail. 

He drew in a breath. Another. Slid his fingers over the face of the phone, conferencing Shaw and Fusco in. Delivering the news once would be difficult enough. 

He swallowed hard. "Miss Shaw." His voice was a bare whisper to his own ears. "Detective--"

_"...dead ducks..."_

Harold's head hit the back of the head rest with a thump, mind stuttering as John's soft rasp teased his ear. 

"John." That single word was all he could manage. 

_"Finch, what's going on?"_

_"You there, Professor?"_

Shaw's and Fusco's demanding queries jump-started him again. 

"John has managed to eliminate the last of his adversaries," he reported, steering the car back into traffic at the first opportunity. "But he's injured." 

_"Shot? Stabbed?"_

"Unknown, Miss Shaw. I've managed to keep him talking, but there is some...mental confusion, which has made determining the exact nature of his injuries and his precise location difficult." 

_"GPS on his unit puts it closer to 9th than 14th,"_ Fusco chimed in. _"Word is there's some heavy drug action going on down there. Narcotics is playing it close to the vest, but I managed to pry some information out of dispatch. They had a flyby scheduled for tonight."_

Harold managed a glance at his laptop as he took a hard left, altering course. Seven waterfront properties in that stretch dated back to the early 1900's. Construction materials of that time would have consisted of fired brick. Wooden roofs would have been updated to metal when the extruding process became more affordable. Those materials could easily be blocking the signals from John's phone. 

Three of the properties were currently listed as foreclosures. They seemed the most obvious choice for locations to conduct illicit business, but that still gave them three large structures to search. And there was no guarantee John had taken shelter in any of them. 

_"...chickens...c-came back...to roost..."_

For a moment, Harold feared Reese was warning of the arrival of more aggressors, but then he realized his partner had used the past tense. 

"Detective. John implied drugs were involved. He worked Narcotics before he joined you at the 8th." 

_"I see where you're going,"_ Fusco responded quickly. _"He might have run into one of his old collars that started up business down there again. I can get into the department database from my phone to check his old case files. See if I can get us an address. But that's gonna hold me up."_

"Better late than sorry," Harold murmured. He'd rather a delay over wasted time. 

_"Huh?"_

_"I'm only about fifteen minutes out, Fusco,"_ Shaw interjected. _"Harold'll have backup."_ She waited for the click indicating the detective was no longer on the line before growling, _"You **will** wait for back-up, Finch."_

"I'll see you soon, Miss Shaw," Harold obfuscated, terminating the call. "Like hell, I'll wait," he muttered. 

_"...p-potty mouth..."_

Harold grimaced. Of course John had heard that. 

"Due to your influence, no doubt." 

Reese made a garbled sound, which Harold chose to interpret as a laugh. _"...d-don't...get...c-cocky."_

"I believe that's your purview, Mr. Reese." 

There was a long period of silence, then a breathy, _"..t-tired..."_

Harold stepped harder on the gas. 


	2. Chapter 2

Harold parked among the plentiful shadows of the wide road fronting the row of waterfront warehouses, gaze locked on the building Fusco's digging had suggested might be their goal. The address matched one of the three foreclosures, and it was also the site of one of Detective Riley's early drug busts. 

Based on the rules of probability, this was John's likely location. Life wasn't a math problem, however, with certainties and arguable proofs; the odds could change quickly with each roll of the dice.

There was no guarantee his partner was inside, but at the moment, this was their best option.

From his vantage point, Harold had a view of the front and near side of the building. Three stories high, the once-profitable processing plant had definitely seen better days. Doors and windows on the first level were boarded with graffitied sheets of plywood. No such care had been taken to seal the broken windows on the upper floors; gaping black on black rectangles with only a few slivers of glass catching the meager light. Based on what he could see of the building's side, it looked like the structure extended all the way back to the boulder-edged shoreline. 

For all intents and purposes, the building appeared abandoned. Lifeless. 

Harold fervently hoped that was not the case. He'd had no response from his partner for the last few minutes. 

He reminded himself that 'silent' could mean unconscious, not dead. He opened the duffle containing the medical supplies, pocketing a small high-beam flashlight before zipping the bag shut and getting out of the car. 

He hitched the bag over his shoulder and scanned his surroundings once more. 

There was no one in sight. The only sounds were the wash of waves against stone, the low moan of a boat horn far out on the water, and the faint rumble of traffic on more populated streets several blocks behind him. 

He let Bear out of the back seat and clipped the leash to his collar. The Malinois responded as he'd been trained, immediately coming to a 'sit' at Harold's feet, alert and focused. Confident. Harold wished _he_ was. He knew the commands, but he'd seldom had to put Bear to 'work'. 

The narrow strip of leather wouldn't contain the military-trained dog once he had Reese's scent trail. Harold held no illusions about his ability to stay with him when that happened, but the Malinois would sound an alert once he'd found the object of his search. Harold would follow that beacon to his partner. 

"I'm a bit out of my depth here," he murmured to the dog. "But I suppose I'll simply have to...wing it." He held John's shirt out for Bear to sniff, letting the dog get a good noseful. Tossing the shirt into the car through the broken window, he took a deep breath. "All right. Let's find him. _Bear, Reveiren!"_

The Malinois spun on his haunches, nose raised to test the air. He snorted softly, then paced quickly toward the building, the leash taut between them as Harold struggled to keep up. 

Nose to the ground now, Bear tracked a few feet to the right, then to the left, his pace increasing as he moved along the outside wall of the building. His head suddenly came up and he stopped, still as a statue. Harold leaned down and detached the lead. Bear bolted toward the water. 

Harold followed as quickly as he could, halting just short of the rear corner of the building, breath coming in short, hard pants. Bear was a tawny blur among the shadows, pacing slowly out onto a short battered wood pier, his attention focused on the water below. 

Before Harold's heart could climb completely into his throat, the dog reversed direction. Nose barely inches off the ground, the Malinois returned to the shore and picked his way among the huge boulders that bordered the water's edge.

He shifted course again, heading straight for the rear of the building. Harold eased around the corner. The ambient light from the City reflecting off the water barely made a dent in the murky darkness. He slipped the flashlight from his pocket and trained the beam along the back wall. Bear was pawing urgently at a metal door, his nails birthing a wailing screech with each stroke. 

The damage caused by age and neglect was worse on this side of the structure. A portion of the roof had collapsed, crushing the outer wall below it; creating gaping fissures in what had once been sturdy solid walls, and spewing a flood of bricks and mortar that tumbled all the way to the water line. Harold limped toward Bear, sweeping the beam of the flashlight across the ground to avoid stumbling over the debris. 

While the Malinois accepted both John and Harold as his masters, it was definitely his alpha he was channeling now. When the door failed to yield to his determined assault, he simply found a way around it, wriggling through one of the gaps in the outer wall. 

Harold chose the door, which, to his surprise, opened smoothly, the hinges rotating easily and silently--evidence that it had seen regular use. He slipped inside. 

It was like walking into a black hole. The flashlight beam barely penetrated the darkness. The wood floor beneath his feet creaked ominously and Harold's shoulders hunched instinctively against the oppressive sense of the building's impending collapse. 

It was a deathtrap in more ways than one. 

Bear was nowhere in sight. Harold moved forward, cautiously skirting the remains of crumbled walls, tentatively testing the weight-bearing worthiness of floor to ceiling beams before trusting them to remain standing when he needed their support to clamber awkwardly over a pile of rubble.

He found the first body fifty feet in. The second, a few yards beyond. The latter lay sprawled over a table littered with the remains of shredded plastic wrapped packages, a wide blood pool staining the white powder that coated the tabletop and floor. John's attackers...two of them at least, and evidence of a drug deal gone sour.

Harold turned a slow circle, trying to see into the shadows beyond the flashlight beam's reach, but there was no sign of his partner. 

He twisted to his left at Bear's sharp, imperious bark. Pulse thudding in his throat, he worked his way toward the sound as quickly as he dared. The flooring in this section of the building was in even worse shape, filled with gaping holes where the rotting planks had given way. Harold paused for just a moment to direct the beam of the flashlight down through one of the ragged gaps. Instead of the solid concrete slab he'd expected, he found empty space. Water and time had nearly destroyed the foundation, hollowing out a deep cavity under the structure. 

Bear barked again, spurring Harold forward. When he finally caught sight of the Malinois, the dog was pacing the length of another large rent in the flooring, casting back and forth as if looking for a way down into it. 

Harold nearly tripped over a third body--a hulking slab of muscle, flat on his back with a bullet hole in his forehead. He skirted the cooling corpse to join Bear on the far side of the hole, gauging that the dog's instincts had led him to the most stable area. 

Bear whined and nudged at him, the Malinois' urgency enough to counter the stab of fear spawned by the sag of the wood beneath his feet. He set the duffle bag down a safe distance from the edge of the hole, lowered himself down on one knee and leaned forward, directing the beam of the flashlight downward.

There were two bodies below, half-buried by the broken planks and support beams that had fallen with and over them. Only one mattered--the man in the black suit whose fingers were limply curled around the butt of a familiar-looking pistol. 

His partner; still as death except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

"John!"

Reese's fingers twitched. 

Harold allowed himself one sharp inhale of relief, then pushed emotion aside, focused on the next stage of rescue. He tapped his earpiece, connecting to Shaw, cutting off her blistering lecture for not waiting for her arrival with a precise, terse report of the situation and a rough outline of their needs.

With the understanding that her arrival was imminent, Harold panned the light across the floor. He studied the sagging edges of the rupture, then turned his attention to the depths. The ground around his still motionless partner glistened with moisture, pooling sluggishly into brackish-looking puddles. Reese had managed to push enough of the debris aside that his upper torso was free, but his legs were pinned under a heavy beam. Blood coated one side of his face.

And he was beyond Harold's reach. 

It was at least an 8-foot drop to uncertain footing. The edge of the hole was unstable. Even if his old injuries would permit trying to lower himself down there, Harold couldn't take the risk that the attempt would bring more of the floor crashing down on top of John, injuring him further.

So close; yet still so far away. It was beyond frustrating. 

And it hurt to acknowledge that being at his partner's side was impossible, when all he wanted to do was cradle John's head in his lap and offer at least the comfort of a gentle touch while they awaited assistance. 

Bear nudged him again. As he absently soothed the dog, it occurred to him that there _was_ a way to provide Reese some comfort. The Malinois could handle the drop easily, and the impact on the weakened edge from what would essentially be a controlled fall, would be considerably less given the canine's lighter weight. 

"Hang on, John. I'm sending Bear down to you."

He unzipped the duffle, extracting two heat packs, and a roll of self-stick bandage. Bear stood patiently while Harold activated the packs with a hard slap and secured them to each side of the dog's body with the wrap. 

Harold quickly sorted through the Dutch commands Reese had taught him. There were specific words for jumping over ditches and fences, and for swimming across a lake, but he couldn't remember one for 'jump in the hole.' He finally settled on the command that would send the dog 'ahead', hoping an accompanying gesture would impart the meaning he wanted to convey.

He gingerly shifted back from the edge, laying a hand on the Malinois' tense shoulder. "I know you want to go to him," he murmured. "So go." He swept his arm out and down. _"Bear, Vooruit."_

The Malinois stared down into the hole, head weaving right and left in short jerks, like a paratrooper gauging the conditions of his jump. Then he rocked back on his rear legs and pushed off, front legs extended as he sailed out and down.

Harold scrambled sideways as the floor under him sagged and another foot of the edge broke off with an anguished groan. But the rest held. He peered over the edge, relieved to see that Bear had landed safely. The Malinois went directly to his alpha, nosing him gently.

"Now lie down next to him," Harold ordered. _"Af liggen."_

The Malinois wedged his body into the space between John's outstretched arm and his torso, bringing the heat packs into contact with Reese's body. He licked John's face, then settled his head on his master's chest. 

" _Braaf,_ Bear," Harold praised. "That's exactly where I wanted you."

He continued to talk to the dog, murmuring encouragement each time Bear tried to entice Reese back to consciousness with a nudge or another swipe of his tongue. Harold thought he'd finally seen John's eyes flutter in response to the careful prodding when Shaw's shout announced her arrival.

"Finch! Where are you?"

"Here, Miss Shaw. Mind your step."

He twisted to look over his shoulder. Two beams of light tracked toward him. Their detective had arrived as well. 

Both looked grim when they joined him.

"Fuck," Fusco cursed succinctly, trying to peer down into the hole without getting too close the edge. "He alive?"

Harold nodded. 

Fusco pulled his cell from his pocket and stepped a few paces away. Harold couldn't make out what he was saying, but his tone was tense, the pace of his words urgent. 

Shaw remained silent as she crouched down next to Harold, her intent gaze fixed below.

"I brought the supplies you packed for field emergencies, but..." Harold breathed out a frustrated sigh and waved toward the hole. "I believe he's beginning to come around, but he's been mostly non-responsive since I arrived."

Shaw placed a hand on his arm in a rare gesture of comfort. "Fusco's got Fire and Rescue on the way."

Harold's wary gaze snapped to the detective.

"You said he was out on police business, not handling one of _your_ cases," Fusco explained quickly, rejoining them. "It'll go in the logs as a line-of-duty injury. With four dealers and a load of drugs permanently off the street, nobody's gonna spend time wondering why he was here."

"And Bear's presence?"

Fusco shrugged. "He's had the pooch with him before. For all anybody knows, he's got a nose for drugs."

"But _our_ being here _will_ raise questions," Shaw cut in. She pushed to her feet, snatching up the duffle bag and settling the strap crossways over her chest. "We need to go."

Her words stunned Harold. Go? Leave while John was still in danger? 

"That is not an option I'm willing to embrace, Miss Shaw," he stated flatly.

Fusco's phone buzzed. "They're five minutes out," he warned. 

"You're always preaching that our covers need to stay intact, Harold," Shaw argued. "You know what happens if they don't."

Cold rage washed through him. At that moment he hated John Greer with every fiber of his being. If this had happened a year ago he would have had the freedom and resources to handle everything himself, just as he'd done when Reese had been shot by the CIA. Now every breath, every step they took had to be weighed and considered in order to remain hidden from Samaritan's ever-watchful eyes.

"Finch--"

Reese's low raspy voice pulled his attention back to his partner. John's eyes were half-open, and he'd roused enough to drape his left arm across Bear. 

"Nice spot for a nap, Reese," Shaw commented sarcastically. 

Harold shot her a glare. "Good of you to rejoin us, Mr. Reese."

"...time..."

Fusco snorted. "Yeah, well quit playin' lone wolf and you won't have to wait so long for a rescue."

John's eyes fluttered closed, and he gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. 

"...fly...the c-coop..." 

Reese's breathy, cryptic comment left Fusco looking confused and pinched Shaw's face with concern. 

Harold understood.

His shoulders slumped as the weight of their larger responsibilities settled like a heavy cloak. He wanted to argue for the right to stay. But the greater good trumped personal desires. As Shaw had pointed out, a college professor and a cosmetics saleswoman had no legitimate reason to be found among the dead bodies of drug dealers. Questions would be raised that neither glib answers nor digital sleight-of-hand would satisfy. If even one of their false identities started to unravel, they would all be in jeopardy.

He refused the hand Shaw offered to assist him to his feet, stubbornly rising on his own. He pulled Bear's leash from his pocket and handed it to Fusco. 

"I'll keep an eye on them," Lionel vowed. 

Harold turned to gaze down at his partner. A terse nod was all he allowed himself before following Shaw out of the building.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since real life is creating a delay in getting this story posted completely, I've added the list of idioms used to date at the end of this chapter.

The whoop and wail of sirens rapidly descending on their location reached Shaw's ears as they neared the building's rear exit. She glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see Finch was only a few feet behind. Like her, he was undoubtedly keeping tabs on what was happening behind them, listening via the speaker in Fusco's phone as the detective alternated between haranguing the first responders to hurry, and exhorting Reese to stay awake. The urgency in Fusco's voice had nearly been enough to make _her_ turn back several times. 

She didn't even want to think about what was going on in Finch's head. 

She'd played dirty, using Harold's concern for all of them to pry him from Reese's side--or more accurately, from as close as he'd been able to _get_ to his partner. If Fusco hadn't been there, she was sure she would have had to forcibly remove him. 

Not that she wouldn't have done it if necessary. With Reese down, the watch was hers. That meant getting Harold away from danger as quickly as possible--with or without his cooperation. 

Shifting the duffle so it hung across her back, she pulled her Beretta. She shoved the rear door open, took a quick look to make sure the way was clear, and ushered Finch through, not giving him a chance to balk at leaving. They quickly picked their way through the rubble to the corner of the building, the beam of her flashlight illuminating their path. She killed the light once they cleared the corner, and shepherded Harold toward the dark sedan she had arrived in. 

Tossing the duffle into the car's back seat, she slid behind the wheel as Finch limped around to the passenger side. A swipe of her arm cleared the seat of crumpled food and candy bar wrappers, dropping them into the footwell. She leaned across to hit the door release and shove the passenger door part way open. 

Finch didn't get in the car, though. He hurried past, headed toward another vehicle parked a dozen yards away. 

With a muttered curse, she slid the Beretta into the holster wedged between the seats, cranked the engine to life and shifted into gear. Leaving the headlights off, she pulled up next to the other car as Harold grabbed items from the front seat and dragged the sleeve of his coat over the steering wheel. The part of her that was ISA trained to leave no evidence behind approved of his actions, but chafed at the delay--they had to move and move _now._

"Finch!" Her hissed demand was lost in the nearly deafening blare of the approaching EMS vehicles' sirens. They were almost upon them, searing red and yellow flashes of light bouncing off building facades as the first responders neared the turn that would bring them onto the frontage road. 

Laptop bag clutched to his chest, Finch lurched over to the sedan and climbed in, grabbing the fabric of his trousers to drag his less cooperative leg inside. Shaw had them moving before he had the door closed, the jerk of the car's forward momentum doing the rest of the work of shutting the panel with a decisive click. 

Tires squealing, Shaw aimed for the nearest cross street corner, catching the edge of the curb as she cut the turn too sharply. The sedan bounced hard enough to rattle her teeth. Finch gasped in protest and clutched at the dash with his free hand. She spun the wheel and hit the gas. The sedan shot forward onto the shadow drenched street bare seconds before the first of the emergency vehicles sped past behind them. 

She blew out a stream of adrenaline charged air, mentally debating the pros and cons of safe house versus subway haven. Then Finch torpedoed her plans. 

"Pull around the block."

Harold's voice was its normal timbre, pitched to a conversational level--but damned if she didn't respond as if he'd shouted like one of her old Marine Corp drill sergeants, automatically scanning up ahead for the first available turn. She swallowed another curse and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. 

She should have known his cooperation was going to be a short-lived thing. 

"You can listen in on Fusco's phone from almost anywhere," she countered, flicking a glare in his direction as she cruised straight through the intersection. 

He appeared oblivious to her displeasure, occupied with pulling his laptop, a bundle of cables and several other unidentifiable items from the depths of his bag. "I'm more interested in the transmissions between the Paramedics and the hospital," he answered tersely. "The equipment I have with me is only capable of picking up their signal at a maximum range of 1200 feet." 

Slowing slightly, she steering around what looked like a deep pot-hole in the street. Unwilling to risk a flat tire or broken axle, she flicked on the headlights just as she heard Fusco respond to a hail from the first responders.

_"'Bout time! I got an injured man here! We're going to need a ladder or one of those portable step things you guys have to get down to him."_

Finch stilled, fingers spread flat on the unopened laptop.

Lionel's voice was lost in the clash of other demanding voices for a few moments, then it rang through clearly.

_"Just get me a way in there that won't bring the rest of this crap down on top of my partner. I'll safe the weapons, and take care of the dog."_

There was burst of static in her ear, then garbled chatter followed by the sharp crack of splintering wood. The sudden roar of some kind of high powered equipment drowned out Bear's angry barks of alarm and Fusco's shouts of reassurance.

None of it was unexpected, but it helped solidify her course of action. Just listening to this was going to age Finch another decade. Sticking close would be an exercise in torture. She zoomed past another possible turn.

Harold's firm, quiet protest came immediately. "Miss Shaw--"

She cut him off decisively. "Finch, we _need_ to get clear."

"We're no longer in danger of imminent discovery," he said dismissively.

She tried a different approach. "Reese wouldn't want you to--" 

"He's in no position to object," Harold stated flatly. "Turn us around." 

Shaw ground her teeth in frustration. Fucking emotions always complicated things. Made even the most logical people stupid. Just because Reese was his lover--

No. That was unfair. Finch would have insisted on staying for any of them, even Root, with whom he shared a decidedly checkered past. 

Shaw could respect that. She really could. But she was also committed to keeping him safe.

"I believe I made my intentions quite clear, Miss Shaw. Pull around the block, or pull over." 

She gripped the wheel tighter. Harold's voice, still quiet and precise, held the brittle edge of barely contained anger, and carried the weight of authority that he so seldom blatantly exercised. She risked a glance at him. In the faint light cast by the dashboard instrumentation, Finch looked grimmer and more determined than she had ever seen him. 

And if she wasn't mistaken, he had his right hand on the door release. 

There was a turn ahead. She could ignore that one too, but she didn't trust Finch not to do something foolish, like jumping out of a moving car.

She wouldn't put it past him. Stubborn son-of-a-bitch.

"This is a bad idea," she growled, grudgingly setting her foot to the brake to slow for the next turn. 

Finch didn't bother to respond. She caught a flash of something white in his hands--fabric, maybe a shirt--that he folded carefully, almost with reverence, before placing it in his bag.

"1200 feet, Miss Shaw," he reiterated, settling the bag at his feet amongst the discarded food wrappers. "Closer is preferable, as is a position that affords a direct line of sight."

She bit back a snide comment about tape measures not being a standard part of rescue gear, and killed the headlights before making the next right, slowly heading them back toward the chaos. Three blocks ahead, the strobing lights and high intensity spots and flares of the emergency vehicles bathed the area around the front of the old processing plant with almost mid-day brightness. The rumble of heavy engines and the squawk of radio transmissions between Fire and Rescue personnel rebounded off the buildings like a trapped thunderstorm.

The auditory confusion _inside_ the building was nearly as bad, but Fusco's voice cut through the clutter. 

_"Hey, pooch...yeah, good dog. Sit still and let me get this offa you. You...you stay awake. And don't shoot me. I'm one of the good guys, remember?"_

There was a sharp bark identifying Bear, and a garbled sound that might have been Reese answering, but whatever he'd said was subsumed by the sounds of what she assumed was debris being shifted. At least they'd finally gotten Fusco down to Reese. That was a step in the right direction, although you wouldn't have known it based on Harold's stony expression.

There was more raspy mumbling that she couldn't decipher, and then Fusco responded, sounding exasperated. 

_"Not a what? Dicky-bird? What the hell is that? No, don't move...just **stop,** damn it! I'll get it."_

Finch abruptly reached up to touch his earpiece, shoulders slumping a little after a few moments. Lips pressed in a thin tight line, he resumed straightening the cables he had draped over his lap. 

Shaw frowned and eyed Harold. "Dicky-bird? That mean something to you?"

Finch's fingers tightened on the cables, but he didn't look up. "Mr. Reese has cut communications from his end. I believe Detective Fusco has taken possession of his phone and earpiece."

While his explanation had been perfectly matter-of-fact, Harold was clearly unhappy about the loss of that connection. Shaw refrained from reminding him that Reese had made the correct choice in securing communications and eased the sedan into one of the few remaining patches of shadow, just barely within the transmission range Finch had demanded.

Harold was putting the finishing touches on whatever he was creating out of the items and cables he'd pulled from his bag, deft fingers slotting pieces together in the dark with the same surety she would bring to the assembly of a sniper's rifle. He rolled down his window and aimed an antenna-like device toward the source of all the activity, wedging it between the side mirror and the window frame. One cable connected it to a USB port in his laptop. Another cable ran to the cell phone he'd pulled from an inner pocket. 

Shaw hissed in warning as light bathed the interior of the sedan when he opened the laptop. Finch muttered something unintelligible and immediately turned the brightness of the monitor down to almost nothing, but there was still enough telltale illumination to give away their location if someone looked their way. Shaw turned and reached between the seats, snagging a shirt from the bag she had stashed in the back. She tossed the garment to Harold, who quickly draped it like a tent over the laptop's monitor. 

Finch's fingers flew across the keyboard, and then his thumb stroked across the trackpad eliciting a burst of chaotic noise from the phone's speaker--a cacophony of sounds and voices layered over one another, blurring then sharpening like some bizarre discordant symphony warming up for a performance.

Shaw pulled her Beretta and scanned their surroundings, ready to start the car immediately if the noise had given them away, but what had seemed like a deafening roar in the close interior of the sedan obviously couldn't compete with the noise EMS was generating. Still, she shot Finch a warning glare and he cut the volume by half, his scowl deepening as he tapped more keys in an attempt to clean up the signal.

Finch nudged the antenna-like device, repositioning it slightly. There was a burst of static, and then an unknown voice. 

_\--Dispatch we are...onsite...for ALS intercept...Be advised..._

Finch stroked the track pad again, his pinched expression easing only slightly as the Paramedic's transmission cleared.

_\--...this is an active crime scene with at least two fatalities. Patient is an NYPD detective. His partner is onsite with the arrival of additional NYPD personnel imminent. Switching to NY Trauma Center for triage..._

Shaw tightened her grip on her pistol. They were parked close to the cross street, able to turn north or south as necessary. Confident they could manage a quick getaway, she concentrated on the Paramedic's rapid-fire assessment, tuning out as much of the background noise as she could.

_\--...Riley, John, middle initial unknown...Caucasian male, mid-40s, estimated weight 190...Partner indicates no known medical issues...Patient has suffered a fall of 8-10 feet and is currently trapped under debris in wet, unstable conditions. Full degree of fall trauma TBD. FD Incident Commander is onsite and coordinating removal of debris for extrication...Patient is currently responsive, but reportedly experienced BLOC..._

"Brief loss of consciousness," Shaw interpreted for Harold's benefit. 

_\--...Patient is A and O times 3, but is exhibiting some signs of confusion and slurred speech, possibly due to closed head trauma and/or mild hypothermia. Airway is clear, no decreased lung sounds...Initial GCS is 8. Vitals to follow..._

Shaw repressed a grimace. The initial assessment numbers weren't _great,_ but they could be worse. 

_\--...Administering O-2 at 15 LPM. C-collar is in place, will board ASAP..._

"They'll bring him up and out on a backboard to avoid aggravating any spinal injuries," Shaw explained almost absently. She realized her mistake when Harold's expression went completely blank. Only the widening of his eyes gave any hint of his inner turmoil. "Standard protocol for fall-induced trauma," she added quickly. "Don't go buying trouble, Finch."

Her attempt at reassurance sounded cold and brusque to her own ears, but then again she'd never been known to have a soothing bed-side manner. Fortunately, Finch accepted the explanation and the admonition with a soft, "Of course."

_\--...non-penetrating GSW upper left arm, bleeding is sluggish, vitals continue to be chart low but stable...NY Center, we're in a holding pattern for further assessment until we can extricate...Request permission to start IV and fluids while we continue to monitor..._

For several minutes the growl of a motor overshadowed everything else. "Hydraulics," Finch offered quietly after a few moments. "Forced air compressor or generator...most likely to power the equipment they'll use to widen the hole and shift the debris. The unstable flooring is...problematic."

'Problematic' was an understatement. She wasn't sure how Finch managed to keep from flinching when the jarring sound of breaking wood merged with the harsh urgent communications flying between the rescue workers.

The scream of approaching sirens cut the night, adding fresh drama to the nightmare. Three patrol cars and two unmarked sedans joined the EMS vehicles clustered at the front of the processing plant. A half-dozen men spilled out, the ones in suits heading for the building, the uniforms taking up positions to secure the scene. 

"It's getting pretty crowded, Finch," Shaw observed, feeling twitchy.

"I have confidence in your ability to extricate us from any complications that might arise," Harold murmured. He pressed his fingers against his earpiece. "The new arrivals are from Narcotics."

Shaw focused on the feed from Fusco's phone. There was a lot of yelling about who was claiming the crime scene. "Yeah, and they don't sound too happy that Reese broke up a party they were never invited to."

"While I deplore their behavior," Finch said grimly, "their presence _will_ allow Detective Fusco to focus on _our_ priorities."

Shaw nodded. She kept a sharp eye on the uniformed cops slowly patrolling the perimeter they'd established, and concentrated on trying to piece out bits of actual value from the white noise of multiple conversations and frenetic activity going on inside the building. 

One minute of waiting stretched to two; two to five. She shifted in her seat impatiently. Despite the Paramedics reporting stable vitals, the longer it took to pull Reese out of the hole, the greater the chance of complications.

She wasn't about to share that concern with Harold, however. He'd undoubtedly already calculated the risks and multiplied them by a factor of twelve. 

Five minutes became ten, and then fifteen more that felt like hours. One side of the hole had finally been stabilized and equipment was nearly in position to raise the beam trapping Reese's legs. She transferred her Beretta to the other hand and flexed cramped fingers. Patience was definitely not her strong point. 

She wished she could shoot something.

Finch wasn't handling the wait much better, for all that he was used to being on this side of the action--the voice in their ears, their eyes in the sky; the wizard who wielded code like an acclaimed conductor waved his baton, working the digital magic that dug out secrets, kept them safe, and pulled their asses out of the fire when everything went to hell.

He'd been silent as a clam since the comment about their 'priorities'; the picture of focused concentration. His carefully schooled expression gave nothing away. But the deep groove between his eyebrows, the tense hunch of his shoulders, and the nervous twitch of his fingers on the laptop's keyboard spoke eloquently of quiet desperation. 

Justified, given the stake he had in the evening's outcome. 

Loss, or the threat of it, made even the strongest men tremble. 

Reese would have known how to handle him; bring him down off the edge. He would have broken the uneasy silence with one of his awful quips or groan-inducing puns. Would have reached over and laid a hand on Harold's arm, nudged his glasses, or bumped shoulders. Unfortunately, neither polite small talk nor gestures of reassurance were part of her bag of tricks. 

The sounds and voices emanating from within the building suddenly morphed from frantic preparation to controlled purpose. 

_\--...NY Center, advise board is positioned and extrication has begun._

Never had the growl of an engine or the groan of stressed wood been so welcome.

_\--...looking good..._

She released the breath she'd been holding. 

Only to half-choke at the Paramedic's next words.

_\--Whoa! His BP just tanked. Pull him free, now!_

*****************************

Acknowledgements and idioms used to this point:

I'm not a native New Yorker, so if there are no docks at the end of 14th Street, please consider it artistic license.

I'm also not trained in medicine, so if you are and I've made some critical error in the EMS procedures, feel free to let me know that my research was incomplete, or just suspend disbelief.

Dialogue, characters and references from various POI episodes used without intent of copyright violation. 

Idioms and other references:

I know why the chicken crossed the road-- joke vs idiom; standard answer: To get to the other side.

I cocked up-- screwed up something; made a bad decision

Played chicken and lost-- went head to head with someone and came out the loser.

Got my wings clipped--implies a defeat or a lessening of an ability; refers to the practice of clipping birds wings so they cannot fly. (note: that practice is usually reserved for flock control of domesticated birds like chickens and geese, which IMHO doesn't make it any less abhorent)

It's lovely weather for ducks--implies rain or inclement weather; usually a sarcastic reference, ducks being one of the few creatures who seem to have no issue about being exposed to the rain.

As the crow flies-- a direct line from point to point.

My fine-feathered friend-- a well dressed associate

Something smells fishy-- a situation or person is not what they appear to be; in the story, John uses the reference literally to give Harold a clue to where he is.

Ghetto bird-- slang for a police helicopter

See the light-- to understand something at last; also a reference to the 'light' of heaven that has been described by those some as a part of a near death experience; again used literally by John in the story to describe the searchlight on the police helicopter

What's got your tail feathers in a knot?--What's got you worrried/upset?

Birds of a feather flock together-- As opposed to raptors who tend to prefer the company of their mate and express a keen territorial instinct, flock oriented birds (pigeons for example) tend to be more 'social', foraging and roosting in groups, often for protection but also for companionship. 

Bats in the belfry--crazy; unpredictability is also implied

Madder than a wet hen-- implies a state of extreme anger; female chickens protecting their eggs have been known to screech in rage and fly into the face of predators many times their size. 

Smart as an old owl-- highly intelligent

Fly into trouble-- head into danger

Spring chicken-- implies youth

Sitting duck-- an easy target

A new net won't catch an old bird--experience outweighs youth

It's not the years, it's the mileage--unusual wear and tear over a short period of time

Out foxed-- tricked; out smarted; in this story it's a reference to Harold's experience with Ecstacy that John intends for a clue about the drug dealers.

Not a peep--quiet or be quiet

Dead duck-- literally dead in the case of the story; figuratively the idiom refers to an ineffectual person

Chickens come back to roost--old troubles resurface

Better late than never and Better safe than sorry--implies caution. Harold combines them into one phrase in the story.

Potty mouth-- uncouth language; swearing

Don't get cocky--implies arrogance or a lack of caution; refers to the way male roosters strut, showing off their plumage when faced with a challenger or a potential mate. 

I'll have to wing it--attempt something one is not necessarily ready for

Time to fly the coop--time to leave

Dicky-Bird--To not hear, say, or receive a sound, utterance, or item of communication; ex: We haven't heard a dicky-bird out of the kids all night—I think one of us should go check on them.

ALS- Advanced Life Support

GCS- Glasgow Coma Scale; he GCS of a patient determines how “with it” they are. It is scored out of 15 taking into account reaction of eyes, verbal and motor skills.  If the patient scores 1 in each they are GCS 3 – this is very bad and would suggest a coma of some sort . . . or at least very drunk! If they are GCS 15 then this is good.

A&O x 3- (Alert and oriented times three)- The patient knows 'who' they are, 'where' they are, and 'when' they are.

GSW- gun shot wound

Don't borrow trouble-- don't expect the worst case scenario before it exists


	4. Chapter 4

Fear was the taste of stomach-churned bile; the tingle of adrenaline-shocked nerves.

Harold forced himself to take a deep breath, release it, and take another. 

The waiting had been bad enough, but _this..._

What the hell had happened? How had things gone south so quickly? 

Ignoring Shaw's hiss of disapproval, he bumped up the volume on his phone's speaker, searching for an answer amid the conflicting sounds of ripping cloth and slithering wood, Bear's anxious barking and Fusco's fervent cursing.

_"Damn! Looks like a piece of the flooring's jammed into his leg. Probably clipped an artery. The pressure of the beam on the wound site is probably all that kept him from bleeding out."_

Harold's heart stuttered. His finger's hovered over the laptop's keyboard, cramped with helpless horror. 

_\--...NY Center be advised patient has a deep puncture wound lower left leg. Foreign object is still embedded and there is arterial bleeding. Direct pressure is contraindicated. Applying tourniquet. Ready to start IV antibiotics on your order..._

Fear distorted time; stretched moments to the breaking point; stole precious seconds.

He was barely aware of Shaw, too numb to do anything but stare toward the building where others were battling for his partner's life, wishing he was there. 

Wishing he truly _did_ have the ability to break the space-time continuum. 

Not that his presence at John's side would be of any significant value. But at least he would be able to touch him one more time before--

He quickly shut down that train of thought. 

John had survived worse. He would be fine. He was in good hands. 

Just not _Harold's_ hands. Not yet.

_\--...Tourniquet applied. Time 22:13. Sterile field is in place. Ancef administered, 1 gram IVPB over 30 IV. Patient is non-responsive but secure and vitals are stabilizing. Final extrication in progress. Will continue to monitor and advise during transport. Switching to Dispatch..._

Harold closed his eyes, holding a flicker of hope close, and tried to visualize what was happening as the sounds from inside the building washed over him: the metallic clicks of equipment cases being closed; the squelch of wet soil as rescue workers moved into position around Reese; the sharp count of three before they lifted him; the harsh grunts of the men straining to extract their precious burden from the hole; quickly exchanged words of caution; the heavy tread of boots against creaking wood-- 

_"Look, I gave you everything I know. My partner was following a lead on a case and stumbled into yours...I could give a rat's ass about the collar. It's all yours. Now get out of my way."_

Harold felt a stab of panic as Fusco's irritated argument with the Narcotics detectives cost him the tenuous aural connection to John. He leaned forward in the seat, straining for any sight of his partner being rushed from the building, but his view of the ambulance was obscured by the other vehicles. 

_\--...Dispatch be advised we're ready to transport Blue Call. Estimate 17 minutes to NY Center..._

He glanced worriedly at Shaw. "Blue call?"

Her pinched expression told him as much as her carefully phrased answer. "Let's just say they're not going to be taking any detours on the way to the hospital." 

"Then we had best be on our way as well." He tugged the cables from his phone and computer, and yanked the antenna inside the car. His phone vibrated and Shaw tapped the screen to send Fusco's incoming call to the cell's speaker while Harold stuffed the components and laptop into his bag. 

_"He's out. I'm following the ambulance in. They're takin' him to--"_

"I'm aware of their destination, Detective. Miss Shaw and I will meet you there."

_"How'd you--? Never mind......You know he's in pretty rough shape, then."_

Harold swallowed hard before answering. "I'm aware of that as well."

_"He's gonna need surgery on that leg. I'm plannin' to stick around. Keep an eye on things. The pooch and I can do some bonding while we wait. I can send you updates."_

A fresh surge of irritation wiped out Harold's normal politeness. "Just keep your phone on, Detective," he responded curtly. "I'll find you when we arrive." He ended the call with a swipe across the screen and reset it to silent mode.

"We should be taking Fusco up on his offer," Shaw complained, turning the key in the ignition with a hard twist.

Harold ignored her, activating the mapping app on his cell. He pulled up the most direct route to the trauma center, turning the phone so she could see it. "As quickly as possible, Miss Shaw...without drawing undue attention."

She shifted the sedan into gear, but didn't pull out. 

"Is there a problem?" he asked impatiently. 

"Even if I run red lights all the way, there's nothing we can do except wait once we get there, Finch." 

"Perhaps it has escaped your notice, but _waiting_ is what I _do,_ Miss Shaw," he retorted harshly. "I wait for the Machine to send us Numbers, never knowing when a phone will ring; worried that when the Machine remains out of contact for more than a day or two that Samaritan has found and destroyed it. I wait for information that I used to be able to access with a few quick keystrokes, fully aware that each second of delay might cost a life. I wait for the knock on my office or apartment door, or the tromp of feet on the subway stairs, because it's only a matter of time before the sleight-of-hand that protects our cover identities fails."

He shifted his gaze to the still roiling chaos at the end of the street. "I wait for you and John to grace me with confirmation that you're still alive when I hear gunshots on the other end of your lines, or you go silent with no warning. I wait for Miss Groves to appear and criticize me for not taking the fight to Greer and Samaritan; for being too cautious; for not embracing _her_ vision of the Machine."

He breathed out a weary, bitter sigh. "I'm sick to _death_ of waiting, Miss Shaw, but I'm exceptionally good at it after decades of practice. A few more hours will scarcely register."

He closed his eyes, struggling to regain his composure, thankful that the darkness of the car's interior hid his flush of discomfort. He hadn't meant to unleash that tirade of frustration, or reveal such a wealth of personal weaknesses. He of all people knew what their work entailed; the sacrifices it required. 

But he was so _tired_ of settling for moments with the man he loved--of being forced to sit helplessly on the sidelines when John's life was on the line. 

Tired of pretending to be _less_ than what they were to one another. 

His motivations for rushing to the hospital were purely selfish. It would be John's stubborn determination to survive, and the skills of the medical staff, that would determine the outcome of tonight's events, not his presence in the waiting room. But he _needed_ to be there. 

He couldn't fault Shaw or Fusco for not understanding what was driving him. Their battle against Samaritan and their work with the Numbers had always taken precedence. Prudence dictated that he return to the subway, or head to the safehouse and monitor things from there, instead of risking exposure.

Sameen knew he and John were 'involved', but probably thought it was more on the level of 'friends with benefits'. Fuckbuddies. Lionel had a cop's view of what 'partnership' entailed, so he had never questioned their loyalty to one another, and they'd been careful not to disrupt that worldview. 

Reese had been more than willing to make their relationship more 'public', but Harold had feared the exposure. Samaritan watched for outliers, just as the Machine did, and while same-sex relationships were slowly becoming more of a societal norm, homosexual pairings undoubtedly still registered as a blip on the the AI's radar--not to mention the troubles a gay cop could face within his own precinct. 

His eyes snapped open as the car moved, easing forward without headlights until well after the first turn that would head them north-- _toward_ the trauma center. 

"Hope you've got a plan," Shaw said, gaze flicking between the road and the rear view mirror as the sedan picked up speed. "Explaining we're there to retrieve a dog isn't going get us past the front lobby."

He straightened in his seat. Grateful that she was letting his outburst slide, he turned his attention to his phone. "I was hoping Detective Fusco's presence might smooth the way, but perhaps it _would_ be wise to have a contingency." He studied the hospital's website. "It's a Level 1 trauma center, which will benefit Mr. Reese, since they claim to be able to handle any emergency, but their security will likely be sophisticated."

"Which means lots of cameras and guards to try to avoid," Shaw muttered. "Might be better to go in through the employee entrance. See if we can lift some gear and credentials."

Harold frowned. "Given what little we know of Mr. Reese's injuries, what do you estimate his length of hospitalization will be?"

He was glad she just flicked a glance at him and didn't question his assumption that John would make it to the hospital and through surgery. 

"Two days, maybe three, depending on what they have to do to repair the artery and the damage to his leg. They could discharge him with orders for bed rest and limited weight bearing for a few weeks...not that Reese would probably follow those directives. If there's damage to the spinal cord, or other injuries from the fall..." She shrugged.

Harold staunchly refused to consider the worst case scenario, and returned to the problem of access. Pretending to be staff might work for an initial foray, but increased the risk for subsequent visits. He clicked on a weblink that displayed the hospital's overall floor plan. 

"The portion of the trauma center that deals with severely injured patients appears to be a separate section of a more general emergency department, which handles less life-threatening injuries. There's a separate tower for patients who are admitted for short- or long-term stays. Their visitors enter through the main lobby, on the opposite side of the facility from Emergency."

A plan began to take shape. He still had a portion of the self-stick wrap he'd used earlier... 

"I fear I've taken a fall of my own, Miss Shaw," he said, pulling the bandaging from his pocket and wrapping it loosely around his left wrist. "It's probably nothing to worry about, but best to get it checked out, don't you agree?"

She was quick on the uptake. "Absolutely, but given the traffic Emergency sees at this time of night, you're going to have a long wait to be seen. A sprained wrist falls way below a stab wound or heart attack on the triage scale."

"Understandable. It wouldn't be unusual then if I chose to stretch my legs a bit while waiting. You'd be welcome to wander with me, of course."

She glanced at the floor plan and smiled wickedly. "Big place. Lots of twisty corridors. Be easy to get turned around--

"And end up precisely where we wish to be."

"That trick won't work more than once though," she cautioned.

"It's been my experience that Emergency staff tend to stay in Emergency," Harold countered. "Once a patient is admitted, they are cared for by entirely different personnel. Mr. Reese has visited my office at the College often enough to establish a credible connection between Detective Riley and Professor Whistler. My presence at the hospital for subsequent visits _should_ pass as simply the actions of a concerned acquaintance, as long as I enter and exit through the proper set of doors."

" _And_ you don't stay past visiting hours."

"Yes, that's true." He didn't like the idea of leaving John alone and potentially vulnerable for any length of time. Lionel might be persuaded to cover some of the off hours. 

"Root likes to role play," Shaw commented with a smirk. "She and I could play 'doctor'." Her demeanor abruptly shifted from playful to serious. "We'll try it your way. Just...do your best to stay out of trouble."

He settled back in his seat as she steered them through the night. "I wasn't brought up in the woods to be scared by owls, Miss Shaw," he murmured, channeling his partner.

****************  
Additional idioms for Chapter 4:

Gone south-- when a situation gets out of control, usually quickly and unexpectedly

I could give a rat's ass--I could care less

I wasn't brought up in the woods to be scared by owls-- I am not foolish or easily frightened.


	5. Chapter 5

Lionel wearily scrubbed a hand across his mouth and shifted positions, trying to find a more comfortable perch on the flimsy folding chair he had commandeered. It had been a long night, and it wasn't over yet. The doctors were doing their standard 'we'll-have-to-wait-and-see' dance. Come daylight, he might or might-not be minus a partner. 

And, although it was hard to believe, a friend. 

They'd come a long way since the first time Reese had threatened him from the backseat of Lionel's own cruiser--even if he _was_ still in the dark when it came to understanding what Finch and Company were actually up to, and why they'd traded one set of aliases for another. 

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. 

But he couldn't blame tonight's disaster on Reese's tendency to launch like a bat out of hell into trouble, leaving everyone else scrambling to provide cover. Wrong place, wrong time. That's what it boiled down to. Reese had been following up a lead on an official case, for crying out loud. Trying to color within the lines, _doing the job,_ just like Lionel had warned him he had to do if he was going to have any chance of convincing anyone he really _was_ a cop.

Tonight was proof that the road to Hell was paved with good intentions.

Lionel sighed and checked the time. Assuming Shaw was bending speed limits and ignoring anything but solid red lights, Finch should be showing up soon. 

He'd almost rather deal with Coco Puffs. She was just insane. Finch was committed. 

To Reese. 

Damn fools didn't know the meaning of caution when either was in trouble. Between the two of them, it was a wonder he wasn't bald as a coot. 

Lionel reached down to scratch the Malinois behind the ears. "Bane of my existence," he muttered. Bear turned his head to look up at him and twitched an offended ear. "Not you. Your master. The tall one that's always shooting things up...hell, the gimpy one, too." The dog showed his teeth. "All right. So I'm not politically correct. Sue me. Can we at least agree they're trouble with a capital 'T'?" 

Bear whined low in his throat. "Yeah, I know. I'm worried about them too." Lionel stroked his head. "You did good tonight. Findin' him. Keeping him awake. If 'Glasses' doesn't buy you a case of steaks, I'll be surprised. You earned 'em."

The Malinois leaned into the caress, then his head jerked to the side. He abruptly rose to all fours, tail wagging, his attention focused down the hallway. 

"Friendlies incoming, huh? Guess it's time to face the music," Lionel murmured, pushing to his feet. 

Moments later, Shaw strode around the corner, Finch only a step or two behind. Both were wearing bright red 'Emergency Visitor' stickers on their coats. Finch had a wrap around his wrist as though he'd sprained it, but he wasn't favoring it. Those clues suggested the means by which they'd entered the facility, but didn't explain how they'd wound their way into the secure portion of the trauma center without alerting security or setting off a dozen alarms. 

Lionel decided he didn't want to know. He'd heard neither gunshots nor explosions, and pursuing any computerized tampering Finch might have performed was definitely above his pay grade.

And low on the priority scale.

They were here, and it was time to deliver both the good news, and the bad. 

"He's still hanging in there," Lionel assured them quickly. "But you just missed him."

Finch's pace faltered; the brief hesitation before he limped determinedly forward, a small, but telling crack in his carefully composed facade. Once they were within arm's reach, Shaw reached down to scratch the dog behind the ears, eyeing Lionel with false indifference. Finch paled as his measuring gaze flicked from Lionel's face to the empty exam room. 

Lionel slid sideways, blocking the view of the mounds of bloody gauze, and scraps of what had once been a black suit, littering the floor. "They got the bleeding under control. He's on his way upstairs for x-rays and some scans."

Shaw frowned. "Not to surgery?"

"The doc said they want to make sure there's nothing else besides his leg that needs fixin' before they operate."

"They wouldn't risk a delay unless he was stable," Shaw murmured. 

Finch's shoulders drooped a little, but he almost immediately squared them and gave a tight-lipped nod. "John lost consciousness during the extrication. Did he--?"

"He came to during transport. One of the Paramedics said he was still a little out of it, but lucid enough to interact with them to some degree."

"Sounds like he was his usual closed-mouth self," Shaw observed dryly. Finch shot her a glare, which she shrugged off. "Don't get your feathers ruffled, Finch. A _chatty_ Reese would be reason to worry, not the other way around."

Finch huffed an exasperated sigh. "What about damage to his spine? Have they ruled that out?"

"I don't know," Lionel confessed reluctantly. "I heard 'em asking him to wiggle his fingers and toes, but they rushed him upstairs pretty fast." 

Finch shifted his stance minutely, the slight twitch of his mouth the only break in an otherwise unreadable expression. 

"The attending said the surgeon's gonna touch base before they operate." Lionel nodded toward the elevator halfway down the hall. "There's a place upstairs where we can wait, assuming you're set on stickin' around."

Finch confirmed that assumption by claiming Bear's leash and leading the way to the elevator. It didn't escape Lionel's notice that Shaw managed to slide ahead of him to check that the lift was empty before allowing the older man inside. Lionel hit the button for the 5th floor and planted himself at the front of the car, Shaw at his back, Finch and the Malinois in the most secure position against the back wall.

"Who's doing the surgery?" Shaw asked, breaking the tense silence. 

Lionel mentally sorted through the long list of names that had been rattled off at him in Emergency. "A doctor Enright."

"Madeleine Enright?" 

Lionel glanced over his shoulder. Finch had definitely recognized that name, and for the first time since he'd arrived, he actually looked hopeful.

"You know her?" Shaw asked.

"We've crossed paths," Finch replied vaguely.

"A Number," Shaw muttered. "Will she recognize you? Or Reese?"

Lionel frowned and automatically looked up at the floor numbers above the door, quickly ticking their way from one to five. Obviously not the meaning of 'Number' they were discussing. Enright had probably been one of the people they'd helped out at some point. 

"Yes, but I believe we can rely on her discretion, Miss Shaw," Finch answered quietly. "In any case, I can think of no one I'd prefer to have involved. Two years ago, Dr. Enright was considered one of the premier trauma surgeons in the state. Extremely dedicated. One can assume her skills have only improved in the interim."

They exited on the fifth floor, Lionel leading the way to a small, private waiting area. He didn't comment on Shaw's strategic positioning at the rear of their little parade, and made sure she saw him check that the room was empty before Finch stepped inside. She looked twitchy enough to shoot someone, and he didn't want it to be him.

While Finch settled onto a high-backed padded chair at a small table with Bear at his feet, Shaw made a circuit of the room, scoping out the attached private unisex restroom before dropping into a comfortable stuffed arm chair with an appreciative, "Nice."

Lionel glanced around the room. It _did_ exceed expectations for a hospital waiting area. There were two more chairs like the one Shaw had claimed, and a couch long enough to actually stretch out on. Enough room to pace. One wall sported a bank of windows that in the daylight offered a view of actual green space; another featured a counter, sink, compact microwave and refrigerator. A fresh pot of coffee was already burbling into a carafe in anticipation of their arrival.

"A lot of cops end up here with line of duty injuries," he explained, crossing to the 'kitchen' to pour himself a mug. "The staff set this up so their partners and family had privacy while they wait." 

"Got anything to drink besides coffee?" Shaw asked, gaze flicking meaningfully to Finch. The older man seemed oblivious, his attention focused on the laptop he'd already booted. "Snacks too, if you've got 'em," she added casually.

Despite his fingers flicking unerringly across the keyboard, Finch _did_ look worn around the edges. No surprise there. Lionel doubted he'd get the man to eat anything, but something hot to drink was definitely in order. Lionel dug through a basket stuffed with packets of condiments and instant beverages, finally choosing a packet of generic green tea. He stuck a mug of water in the microwave to heat and searched through the cabinets. The food options were slim--a box of granola bars and individualized containers of instant soup mix. 

He grabbed a couple of the bars and a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and tossed them to Shaw. "This'll have to do for now. Cafeteria in the basement should open in an hour or so for the night shift." 

She nodded. Message received. She would forage later and hopefully find something that might tempt Finch. Lionel dropped the tea bag into the steaming mug and set it on the table next to the laptop. 

"Don't step on anybody's toes, Finch," Shaw warned, shoving to her feet to get a look at what he was working on with such focus. "This isn't the time to wake the sleeping giant."

"Duly noted, Miss Shaw," he replied. "I was just confirming our wandering in the halls hadn't raised any red flags." He tapped out a final sequence, then reached for the tea. He leaned back in the chair, wincing a little as he straightened his back, fingers curled tight around the mug. "Thank you, Detective," he said softly, after taking a sip. "Could I trouble you for one of those granola bars?"

Lionel grabbed another bar and slid it across the table. Finch unwrapped it, gave it a disdainful sniff, then broke the bar into chunks. 

Shaw snorted softly when he fed it to the dog. "You never let _me_ feed him junk food." 

Finch stroked the Malinois' head as he gobbled up the treat, whatever response he might have made curtailed by a knock on the door. 

The panel swung open. The woman who stepped into the room was younger than Lionel would have guessed, based on Finch's earlier comments. Petite, with dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail, she wore an ill-fitting white lab coat over surgical scrubs. Her sharp gaze swept the room, settling on Finch.

"I thought my patient looked familiar," she said. 

"Dr. Enright." Finch started to rise, but she waved him off and pulled out a chair at the table, seating herself next to him. 

"We cracked a chest together, Harold. I think we can skip the formalities."

Shaw looked as surprised by the doctor's comment as Lionel was. 

Finch responded with a smile; a bare lift of the corners of his lips, but sincere. "I wasn't aware you'd left New York General."

"The trauma center's part of our care network. I pitch in here when I'm needed." Enright's gaze shifted to Shaw and Fusco before locking on Finch again. "Should we speak privately?"

Finch shook his head. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary. We're all concerned about John. What can you tell us?"

"The short answer?" She leaned forward to place her hand on Harold's, which was fisted in the Malinois' fur. "He's looking at a couple weeks of down time, and some rehab after the surgery on his leg, but he's going to be fine."

Lionel wanted to cheer. Shaw didn't budge from her protective position off Finch's shoulder, but her white-knuckled grip on the back of his chair relaxed. 

Finch looked unconvinced at best.

Enright sat back in her chair. "I take it you saw John earlier? Before or after he was brought in?"

Finch's expression didn't change, but Lionel saw him swallow hard before nodding warily. 

"I know it's hard to believe," Enright continued gently. "The injury to his leg is serious, certainly. But outside of three cracked ribs and some deep tissue bruising on his right side, the CT scan and x-rays are clear. There's no sign of internal injuries."

"No spinal damage?" Shaw asking the question that was, for obvious reasons, at the top of Finch's list of concerns.

Enright shook her head. "None that we can see. And no significant head trauma; just superficial lacerations and what appears to be a minor concussion. We'll keep an eye on that and Neurology will do a couple of follow ups before he's discharged. In layman's terms, the gunshot wound to his upper left arm would be considered a 'graze'. He'll have a new scar to add to his collection, but other than that...he was lucky."

Harold found his voice. It was softer than normal, but clear and precise. "And the surgery on his leg?" 

"Should go smoothly. Between the care he received from the first responders and the staff here, the risk of surgical complications is minimal. He's had fluids and a transfusion to bring his blood volume up to where it should be. His vitals are stable. Paramedics started a broad spectrum antibiotic before he even arrived here. That gives us a leg up against infection. 

"John's core temp was a little low when he was brought in. We're not sure if that was due to blood loss, or the conditions in which he was found, but it was within normal range a few minutes ago. We'll remove the embedded object, fix any nicks or tears in the artery that was damaged, and make sure blood flow isn't compromised. From what I can see on the scans, it looks like the piece of wood that penetrated the skin and tissue is pointed...like a knife blade. That should mean less damage to the surrounding muscle and tissue, and less obvious dimpling and scarring of the surgical scar as it heals."

She rose to her feet. "Surgery should only take a couple of hours. I'll be back to give you a full report as soon as we're done." Enright dug in her lab-coat pocket for a moment and extracted three blue 'Surgical Visitor' stickers, placing them on the table. 

Lionel breathed a little easier. Unless one of them wandered into a restricted area, the stickers meant security wouldn't give them a second look. 

Finch cleared his throat softly, managing a quiet, "Thank you."

Enright nodded to Shaw and Lionel. She paused in the doorway to look back at Finch. "You and John saved _my_ partner, Harold. I'm just returning the favor."

An awkward, stilted silence hung in the air for several minutes after she left. No one seemed eager to speak and break the spell of hope Enright had woven. Lionel busied himself with dumping his now cold coffee and fixing another mug. Shaw moved to stand at the windows, gazing out at the dark night. Finch slowly removed the wrap from his wrist, giving the task far more attention than it required. 

The tableau shifted when Shaw grabbed her water bottle and guzzled it dry. She pitched it toward the trash can and plucked one of the stickers from the table. 

"Lot of fuss for someone who took a tumble and ended up with a big splinter," she grumbled dismissively, ripping off the red sticker from her jacket and slapping the blue one on her thigh. "If we're going to be stuck here for a while, I need more than chicken feed." A half-eaten granola bar followed the path of the empty water bottle. 

Lionel appreciated her show of bravado and indifference, completely in character, but also undoubtedly designed to get a rise out of Finch and break him out of silent mode. Instead of a glare or quelling retort, however, Finch pushed to his feet and limped to the restroom, the door closing behind him with a snick. 

"Damn." Shaw glared at the closed door for a moment, then turned to fix Lionel with a look that promised painful retribution if he screwed up. "I'm going to take a look around. Make sure we've got an exit strategy in case Enright's not as trustworthy as she seems."

Lionel nodded and leaned back against the counter, striving for nonchalance. "Grab me a sandwich while you're out wandering the halls."

"Yeah, right. Like I'd spring for food for you. Dream on, Fusco."

Their banter didn't quite have its usual playfully sarcastic bite, but it edged them closer to normal. 

Shaw opened the door and paused. "Keep an eye on him." She nodded toward the laptop. "And whatever you do, don't let him pull up the feeds on the surgical suites."

"I'll find some cards and we'll play 'Go fish'," Lionel retorted dryly. 

She flicked one last glance toward the restroom and then slid out into the hall. 

Lionel blew out a breath, and decided searching for a deck of playing cards might not be a bad idea. 

********************

Chapter 5 idioms and colloquialisms

The more things change, the more they stayed the same. 

Bat out of hell-- flee or advance without thought of what lies before you

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

Bald as a coot-- hairless or bald; the aggravation Finch and Reese cause Fusco makes him want to pull out his hair in frustration.

Time to face the music--own up to reality; face a difficult situation

Don't get your feathers ruffled-- don't get upset

Don't step on anybody's toes--be careful

Not the time to wake the sleeping giant--don't disrupt an enemy that's more powerful than you are.

Cracked a chest together-- performed thoracic surgery; a reference to the episode "Critical' 

Chicken feed--a small, insubstantial or unsatisfactory amount; often used in reference to money

Go Fish-- a children's picture card game that involves guessing what another player is holding in their hand in order to build sets of similar cards in order to win the game.


	6. Chapter 6

Harold planted both hands flat on the restroom sink's narrow countertop, leaning into the physical support the vanity offered.

Privacy at last. 

No one standing guard, arguing, and second-guessing him.

No one sending concerned glances back and forth that they imagined he wouldn't notice. 

No one uttering words of reassurance that scraped his already flayed nerves raw. 

He _did_ appreciate their efforts--Shaw's protectiveness, Fusco's loyalty, Dr. Enright's compassion. But their well-intentioned caretaking wore on him. Made it more difficult to keep his roiling emotions locked down.

He closed his eyes; focused on breathing in...and out...in...and out...

_'He's going to be fine.'_

Madeleine Enright--what an unexpected plus in night full of minuses. 

Anticipating that John would need the best skilled hands and mind available to survive the night's trauma, her name had been the first to spring to mind. While Shaw had raced them across town, he had covertly entered the nine digits of Enright's phone number into his cell--even composed a text, requesting the surgeon's help. He had deleted it before he could act on the impulse, fearful that involving her could ultimately jeopardize her safety. 

How ironic that it turned out that it would _indeed_ be her, wielding her expertise to safeguard John's life--figuratively holding Harold's heart in her hands.

Between one exhale and the next, doubt tried to raise its ugly head _\--Wasn't it just convenient that Dr. Enright has privileges here...Happened to be here the night John needed someone with her expertise...She recognized you...Could betray you..._

He quashed those disingenuous thoughts ruthlessly. There _were_ past Numbers he suspected would turn on them if the opportunity presented itself--Logan Pierce at the top the list--but Madeleine Enright _wasn't_ one of them. 

He didn't believe in fate and held a paranoid's distrust of coincidence, but he would, in this instance, appreciate the aligning of the cosmos in their favor. 

_'He's going to be fine.'_

Harold desperately wanted to believe that. Trust Madeleine's read on John's condition. But it was difficult to equate 'fine' with the memories of ominous silence on the other end of the comm line; the haunting image of John's blood-streaked face; his partner in everything that mattered, pinned under debris that Harold had no hope of shifting.

Irrational though it was, it would be easier to believe that John would emerge from this disaster whole and strong if he'd just had a chance to touch him. One moment of skin-to-skin contact would have helped keep despair at bay and given certainty to hope. 

Instead, cruel circumstance had John's bright light dancing like a will-'o-the-wisp just beyond his grasp--teasing Harold with promise, leaving his fingers clutching empty air. 

He hated the helplessness of being two steps behind unfolding events. It brought back memories of John's incarceration in Rikers, when each of Harold's carefully crafted plans to get him home had been derailed--first by Donnelly's obsession to identify the 'Man in the Suit', and then by Stanton's treachery. 

There had been a time-sensitive rescue at the end of that debacle as well. The morning after _that_ night had found them naked in John's bed; nestled together after hours of gentle loving like two peas in a pod. They'd been off the grid then, free of the encumbrances that burdened their current aliases. They had taken advantage of that luxury, barely parting over the next few days, burying themselves in each other after each separation, celebrating the wonder of being reunited once more. 

The coming morning would offer no such opportunity for intimacy. He was determined to be at John's side when he woke after the surgery--Dr. Enright's cooperation and connections would help ensure that--but the caretaking he wanted to lavish on his partner would be stymied by the need to protect both their true relationship, and John's cover identity.

Maintaining the illusion that they were just 'friends', meant there would be no sitting next to John's hospital bedside through the long hours of the night, fingers wrapped around his wrist so Harold could feel each beat of his pulse, offering reassurance each time his partner woke. Hospitals offered so little privacy that even during official visiting hours, he would be forced to keep physical contact to a minimum. He couldn't afford to be caught with his fingers smoothing John's hair, or bent over him in the act of stealing a kiss, by a nurse or aide bustling into the room, their entry announced with a barely polite knock on an already half-opened door. 

The weeks of recovery Enright had mentioned posed additional complications that would be difficult to circumvent. When John had been seriously injured in the past, he had recuperated at the safe house, or the Library. He'd been a terrible patient, stubbornly fixated on getting back to their work far faster than any sane person would attempt, but at least he had been under Harold's watchful eye. 

That wouldn't be an option this time. The Library was gone, and their subway headquarters was no place for an invalid, the long sets of stairs being only one of its detractions. The safe house was still equipped with a host of medical equipment and supplies, and would have afforded the privacy Harold preferred, but it was also the only location they currently had to hide a Number. They couldn't afford to lose it through exposure.

Unlike John's other aliases pre-Samaritan, Detective Riley couldn't just disappear into the woodwork to lick his wounds. John would have to be accessible. Out on mandatory medical leave or not, Internal Affairs would have to be dealt with in regard to the four dead drug dealers, and IA tended to demand face-to-face interrogations. The Narcotics detectives whose case he'd stumbled into might not be satisfied with receiving John's statement via email, or grilling him for details over the phone. From the way they had snarled and snapped like rabid dogs over ownership of the case, Harold suspected they wouldn't agree to Fusco playing intermediary. 

And depending on what was prescribed for post-operative care, it was likely Riley would be receiving visits from some kind of home nursing service. Protest as he undoubtedly would, John wouldn't be able to blow off the necessity of complying with the medical directives--not if Riley was going to earn the clean bill of health that would return him to active duty.

John would at least have to _begin_ his recovery at Detective Riley's apartment, a necessity which seriously curtailed Harold's ability to remain close at hand. 

As a 'friend', Professor Whistler could certainly stop by on the pretext of keeping John company while he was on prescribed bed rest, timing his visits to avoid the presence of any other visitors. But staying the night, or popping in and out at odd hours--whether to check on John or deal with a Number--would be a change of pattern that could lead to speculative gossip among Riley's neighbors, or worse, be the loose thread that put them on Samaritan's radar.

And the Numbers never stopped coming. While John was sidelined, Shaw would handle whatever came up, with assistance from Fusco and possibly Root, but Harold couldn't simply set up shop and run their clandestine operation from Riley's apartment. The logistics were unworkable and the risk of discovery impossibly high. 

Not for the first time, Harold found himself wishing he hadn't pushed for distance between Riley and Whistler. An 'established' relationship would have eliminated or at least minimized a large percentage of the problems. 

_'He's going to be fine.'_

Harold blew out a disgusted breath. He was being foolish...and selfish. The important issues were John's recovery and his safety, not whether Harold was there to hold his hand. 

He straightened slowly, feeling the pull of too tense muscles; the sharp stabs of pain from his damaged spine and hip; the drag of stress-induced exhaustion. 

A couple of hours. That's how long he still needed to keep it together before he could lay hands on his partner. 'A couple' usually meant two, although some carelessly used the term interchangeably with 'few' or 'several'. A sterling example of an imprecise unit of measure. 

Madeleine would have used it precisely, Harold assured himself.

Two hours. 120 minutes. 7,200 seconds. 7.2 times ten to the third. Absolute value 7200. Negative value--

He shook himself free of the lure of numbers in all their shiny enticing forms. Getting lost in their intricacies would literally make the seconds, minutes and hours pass faster, but he needed to stay present and focused. 

He lifted his head and stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink.

One glimpse made it clear why both Shaw and Fusco were hovering. Tie hanging askew, rumpled and pale, he looked like a wreck.

 _A wrecked Finch,_ he mused. _A Finch wreck, or more generically, a bird wreck._

He swallowed a burst of bitter laughter before it could grow into something he couldn't control. Shaw or Fusco finding him curled up on the tiled bathroom floor, acting as crazy as a loon, certainly wouldn't strengthen his adamant position on staying until he _was_ certain John was all right. 

Although John would have a field day teasing him about it. And when he'd exhausted his particular brand of verbal camouflage, John would turn to a more hands-on approach to disguise his concern. 

_He would set Harold's glasses aside, lightly tracing the fragile puffy skin under Harold's eyes with callused fingertips. Deftly smooth away the frown lines. Touch warm lips to Harold's and make him forget every worry, every care, with a kiss that would send them stumbling and laughing to land in a carefully controlled fall onto soft sheets and--_

He shuddered and determinedly packed that fantasy away. He would settle for no less than the _reality_ of John's hands caressing him; John's body pressed tightly against him. 

One step at a time. Goal firmly fixed in his mind. That was his process. 

He locked his knees. Lifted his hands from the countertop. Turned on the faucet. Splashed some water on his face. Dried his face and hands. Ignored the rasp of cheap paper towel against his skin.

Shrugging out of his coat, he peeled off the red visitor sticker, tearing it to pieces before flushing it down the toilet. 

Facing off against the image in the mirror, he straightened his suit coat jacket and snugged his tie. He smoothed a hand that he refused to allow to tremble over his hair. Wrapped invisible shields around his heart. 

2 hours, plus or minus an incalculable error factor. 

He had told Shaw he was good at waiting. It was time to prove it. 

 

************

When Harold emerged from the restroom, Shaw was gone, and Fusco was seated at the end of the table, laying out a game of Solitaire. 

Lionel's gaze flicked up to acknowledge him. "Miss Congeniality's taking a walk." 

Harold interpreted that as 'scouting the perimeter'. He picked up a discarded granola bar wrapper and dropped it into the trash. "She'll undoubtedly return with a report on the location of every vending machine in the hospital."

Fusco laughed softly. He shuffled out three cards from the deck in his hands. As he played a black 8 on a red 9, his expression shifted from amused to solemn. "You know...what she said earlier..."

"It's quite all right, Detective. Miss Shaw has a unique way of putting things in perspective," Harold said with a soft sigh. "I've...become acclimated." 

He retrieved the mug of tea Lionel had prepared for him earlier and placed it in the microwave. When he returned to the table with the re-warmed beverage, he found John's cell phone and earpiece sitting next to his laptop. 

Lionel placed the Jack of Spades on top of the Queen of Hearts. "I've got his weapon and shield. Figured _you_ should be the one to hang on to those." 

Harold stroked a finger across the phone's screen. The last call logged was to his number. John had reached out to him, and only him. He swallowed against a tight throat and slid the devices into the inner pocket of his suit coat. 

A tap of the laptop's trackpad caused the spinning screensaver to fade, revealing the security feeds he had hacked into earlier. He flicked through the various interior and exterior views, barely resisting the urge to check surveillance options inside the surgical suites. He caught a glimpse of Shaw exiting a public stairwell, nodding casually as she passed a cluster of hospital staff waiting for an elevator. Her confident stride suggested she'd found no obvious threats.

Feeling a little crowded by Fusco's presence at the table, Harold chose to settle into a corner of the couch, tea and laptop within reach on a small end table. Bear scrambled up to stretch out next to him. Harold couldn't bring himself to scold the dog for being on the furniture, especially when the Malinois laid his head on his lap. The dog's warmth and weight offered quiet comfort and reassurance. Harold petted him gently, returning the sentiment. 

The minutes ticked by. Harold sipped his tea. Fusco won a game, lost two. Bear snuggled in closer. The laptop sat untouched. 

Harold found himself studying the detective. He looked as tired as Harold felt; his suit jacket stained with mud and grime...and perhaps even John's blood. Yet he was here, bending the rules, helping protect secrets he didn't even know existed; playing the waiting game in his own fashion. Proof that Harold wasn't the only one with a stake in the night's outcome.

"I'm remiss in thanking you for your assistance this evening, Detective," Harold offered quietly.

"Yeah, well..." Fusco shrugged and shuffled the deck. "He's a pain in the ass, and shit at paperwork, pardon my French, but for better or worse, he _is_ my partner. Gotta cover his 'six'." He started laying out a new game. "You do realize you're gonna have your hands full tryin' to keep him down for two weeks."

"I've considered the difficulties."

"So you gonna move in with him? Or have _him_ move in with you?"

Harold practically choked on a mouthful of tea. 

Fusco appeared unaware of his consternation. He moved two aces to the side, laid down a card, flipped another.

"Given the... _delicacy_ of our current situation," Harold answered cautiously, not at all certain whether the detective had been joking or serious, "I don't believe either option is wise." 

"It'd make things simpler, wouldn't it?"

Although the observation mirrored Harold's own thoughts from earlier, he refrained from agreeing. 

Lionel nodded at his silence anyway. He remained focused on the cards, fanning out three more from the deck and scowling at the game layout. "Always figured the important thing was what's between two people. Not the packaging."

Harold could hardly breathe. As much as he knew about the man--and out of necessity, Harold knew a great deal--Fusco still had the ability to surprise him. Compared to Reese, Lionel was the proverbial 'bull in the china shop'; a little too loud, a little too brash--unapologetically so. It was easy to underestimate him; overlook the sharp mind under the 'dumb cop' facade. 

Harold thought he and John had been careful. It chilled him to realize they might not have been careful enough. If Lionel had seen through their smokescreen, who else had? And to what extent could they count on the detective's support and discretion? Realizing his hands were trembling, Harold set the mug carefully on the side table. 

Fusco moved four cards to various rows before finally looking up to meet Harold's wary gaze. "It don't bother me. You and him." He looked down at the cards again. "Just thought you should know."

Harold sat in stunned silence as Lionel casually worked his way through the deck of cards. Nothing in Fusco's demeanor suggested that he realized he had just dropped a bombshell that had flipped Harold's world view upside down.

Close relationships were an exploitable weakness. A homosexual one doubly so. The dirty cop Fusco had once been would have used the knowledge of his and John's relationship to his advantage, but Harold sensed no deception or hidden agenda in Lionel's candid admission. Just a matter-of-fact statement of acceptance. 

An offering of facts Harold needed to neither confirm, nor deny.

The cat was out of the bag. Oddly enough, Harold felt relieved. He picked up his mug of tea. Stroked Bear. Turned his thoughts to John again. Tentatively allowed himself to ponder the ramifications of Lionel's revelations.

Fusco gathered in his cards and shuffled the deck for a new game. 

Shaw returned in her typical 'take no prisoners' fashion, elbowing the door open and closing it behind her with a backward kick. Dropping an armload of wrapped sandwiches, and bags of chips and cookies on the table, she shoved a part of her bounty toward Fusco, scattering his carefully arranged cards, smirking at his irritated growl. 

She made a pass around the room: ripping open a package of dried beef sticks and feeding one to Bear, depositing a sandwich on the side table next to Harold's mug of tea, grabbing two more bottles of water from the refrigerator, and scooping up the remaining packages of snacks before dropping into a chair. 

Harold's gaze shifted back and forth between Shaw and Fusco as they quietly traded insults like squabbling siblings, picking up the undercurrents of concern that softened the barbed banter. Lionel continued to play Solitaire, occasionally sending a long-suffering glance Harold's way when Sameen lobbed an empty chip bag at him. Shaw shifted around in the chair until she sat sideways in it, legs draped over one arm, looking almost like a bored teenager, albeit one with a sharp eye on the door and a loaded Beretta on her lap. 

For a distraction, it was well choreographed. Caretaking 101. Familial behavior.

" _'The people who claim you...the ones who show up and stay,'_ " Harold murmured in surprise. 

Shaw glanced toward him. "You say something, Finch?"

He shook his head as the entirety of the quote played out in his mind: _“What is family? They were the people who claimed you. In good, in bad, in parts or in whole, they were the ones who showed up, who stayed in there, regardless. It wasn't just about blood relations or shared chromosomes, but something wider, bigger. We had many families over time. Our family of origin, the family we created, and the groups you moved through while all of this was happening: friends, lovers, sometimes even strangers. None of them perfect, and we couldn't expect them to be. You can't make any one person your world. The trick was to take what each could give you and build your world from it.”_

Harold buried his fingers in Bear's fur, closed his eyes, and settled deeper into the couch, leaning on the unfamiliar safety-net of support as they waited Dr. Enright's return.

**********************  
Idioms, colloquialisms, etc. for chapter 6

Two peas in a pod--very close 

Crazy as a loon-- insane

Pardon my French-- an apology for swearing

Cover his six-- military slang for protection 

Bull in the china shop-- a clumsy creature in a delicate situation

The cat's out of the bag-- a secret is revealed

“What is family? They were the people who claimed you. In good, in bad, in parts or in whole, they were the ones who showed up, who stayed in there, regardless. It wasn't just about blood relations or shared chromosomes, but something wider, bigger. We had many families over time. Our family of origin, the family we created, and the groups you moved through while all of this was happening: friends, lovers, sometimes even strangers. None of them perfect, and we couldn't expect them to be. You can't make any one person your world. The trick was to take what each could give you and build your world from it.” -- Sarah Dessen, _Lock and Key._


	7. Chapter 7

Dr. Enright returned eleven minutes shy of the two-hour window she had suggested. The surgeon's polite knock on the door sent Harold's pulse racing. It pounded so loudly in his ears, he missed her initial words and had to rely on the smile on her face to confirm the surgery had gone off without a hitch. 

After briefly outlining the post-surgical treatment plan--observation, pain management, continuated antibiotics, elevation of the right leg with restricted weight-bearing to minimize the risk of tearing arterial sutures--she escorted them, without being asked, to John's recovery room. 

From the moment he stepped inside, Reese commanded all of Harold's attention. Fusco stayed for only a minute, retreating to the hallway with Bear in tow. Shaw scrutinized Enright's handiwork and then steered the surgeon out of the room with a surprisingly tactful request to discuss her suturing technique.

Extraordinarily grateful for the precious moments of privacy he'd been granted, Harold quickly moved to stand next to the bed. 

John looked abnormally pale in contrast to the bleached white sheets and faded blue hospital gown. The IVs, oxygen lines, and multicolored heart monitor leads that snaked around him were a bit unsettling, as was the amount of specialized equipment parked close to hand. The ugly V-shaped wound on John's right thigh, with its meticulous lines of stitches clearly visible through a transparent dressing, turned Harold's stomach. 

But the sight of John's chest rising and falling easily with each breath, and the minute movements that indicated he was beginning to rouse, provided enough reassurance that the tight knot of worry inside Harold began to unravel.

John was within reach. Finally. 

Although Harold ached to embrace him, he restricted his first touch to a feather-light stroke across bruised knuckles. The ex-op's instincts for self-preservation balanced on a knife's edge, tilted toward 'fight first, ask questions later' on a _good_ day. Being awakened abruptly in a strange place could easily result in Reese lashing out, inadvertently injuring himself, and anyone standing within arm's reach. 

When John's fingers merely twitched in response, Harold quickly tapped on the metal bed rail with his fingernail; confident Reese would understand the signal despite his groggy state. Three taps, a pause, a tap and a scrape, a pause, two taps a scrape and another tap, another pause, one final tap--Morse code for 'safe'.

There was a slight, almost undetectable shift in John's breathing. A flutter of impossibly long lashes. A blink revealing ocean-blue eyes--clouded and confused. 

Harold smiled and leaned further over the bed, positioned directly in his partner's line of sight. "John."

Another blink: the fogginess fading; a spark of recognition.

" _There_ you are. Welcome back." 

Frown lines creased his forehead as John's gaze slowly panned across the room.

"You're at the New York Trauma Center," Harold explained quickly. "Surgical recovery ward."

A lifted eyebrow.

"You've been admitted as Detective John Riley." 

John acknowledged the alias with the barest of nods. 

"You encountered some trouble following a lead on a case. Do you remember?" 

A slight narrowing of the eyes; another nod. 

"You sustained an injury to your leg, but the damage has been repaired. You're _safe,_ and in good hands." Wary of bruising hidden by the hospital gown, Harold gently laid his hand over John's heart. "A few days of rest here, then we'll get you home."

John's eyes closed. Harold thought he was drifting off again, but then his mouth opened slightly, the tip of his tongue tracing chapped lips. 

Harold extracted an ice chip from the Styrofoam cup on tray table next to the bed and gently placed it in John's mouth. A pleased groan rumbled from his partner's throat. He opened his mouth for more. 

"You're going to catch flies like that," Harold teased fondly, slowly feeding him several more slivers.

With surprising coordination for a man still fighting off the lingering affects of anesthesia, John snagged his wrist and gave the barest shake of his head. 

"...bird...in hand..." he rasped, a trace of a smirk lifting his lips. "...rare... _Finches Mysteriosis..._ "

An almost giddy laugh burbled out of Harold, negating the effect of the glare he fixed on his partner. "Don't get _cocky,_ " he warned. "The staff might decide you're hallucinating and order more than just another CT scan to check that hard head of yours."

"...be fine..." John pulled Harold's hand to his lips, affirming that promise with a kiss to the tips of his fingers.

Harold managed a tremulous smile. "I expect nothing less."

As if to prove his claim, John tried to lift his head off the pillow. He barely cleared an inch before giving up the attempt, eyes slamming shut and face twisting into a grimace.

"Do you _not_ understand the word 'rest'?" Harold growled, gripping his hand tightly. "You're in no shape to be moving more than your big toe right now. You've got a concussion, probably more bruises than I can even estimate, several cracked ribs, and a leg that's stitched together with thread thinner than my favorite tailor uses." His breath hitched, exasperation giving way to entreaty. "Just lie still. _Please._ " 

John breathed out a frustrated sigh, but settled. He squeezed Harold's hand and rasped, "Don't be...an angry bird..."

Harold resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "It's Angry _Birds,_ plural. As you well know. I'll happily add the game to your phone if you'll behave." 

John's eyes opened and Harold found himself the subject of an intense, concerned gaze. 

"Rough night."

Harold nodded. 

"You okay?"

"Yes," Harold answered firmly. He placed a kiss on John's knuckles and amended his answer. "I am _now._ Detective Fusco and Miss Shaw have been...illuminating company."

John tugged him closer. 

"Get Shaw...to drive you home. Rest." He released his grip on Harold's wrist and gently coasted his fingers down his cheek.

Harold leaned into the caress for a moment, then turned his head enough to nuzzle John's palm. He gently eased Reese's arm down to lie across his chest, being careful not to tangle the IV line. "They'll be moving you to a room in the Tower soon. You won't be alone. One of us will be here, keeping the watch, in one guise or another. I'll get Bear settled and return as soon as I can." 

"Thought hospitals made you...aggressively uneasy." 

Harold noted the strain in his voice. John had an extremely high pain tolerance, but it was clear he was hurting. As much as he wanted to keep him close, it was time to turn him over to more capable hands. 

"They do. All the more reason for you to get well quickly. Please refrain from your normal antics and follow Dr. Enright's orders." 

John's eyes widened a little at the mention of her name. 

Harold smiled. "Sleep and heal, _mio amato. Porto il tuo cuore con me._ "

 

**************  
Note: I admit to a head-canon in which Harold speaks fluent Italian, especially when he wants to say romantic or incredibly heartfelt things to John. The last line of the chapter translates roughly to: "Sleep and heal, my beloved. I carry your heart with me."

*****************************

Chapter 7 acknowledgments and idioms:

Without a hitch-- smoothly, with no complications.

'safe' in morse code: ... .- ..-. .

You're going to catch flies-- have one's mouth open for an extended period

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush--be satisfied with what you've got instead of taking a risk to get more

Don't get cocky-- don't be foolish or arrogant

Angry Birds--a popular video game reference

mio amato-- Italian to English translation: my beloved

Porto il tuo cuore con me-- Italian to English translation: I carry your heart with me.


End file.
